No one else will


Sick. I feel sick. All the time. It’s a side effect of the antibiotics I’m on: upset stomach and diarrhea. Right now I’m running to the toilet so fast I’m not sure I even want to step outside the house. Does not help that I can still see an infection in my mouth. I’m gonna have to go back to the dentist. And he’s gonna want to tinker more. And I don’t want him to.

Wondering if I’m just old now. If I’ve reached that point when all my teeth just have to come out because I’m fucking falling apart. I ain’t dying; no such fucking luck. I know the signs of the body going into shut-down, and I’m not there. I’ve still got color in my cheeks and red lips. Which means one thing: I gotta suffer thru it. No matter what. Death ain’t that close.

Telling myself I’ve one day more on my anti-biotic. Telling myself that this IS livable, many people have false teeth and live a full life. Telling myself all that and more, but between the number the pills are doing on my stomach and my anxiety I’m not in a good place.

And the world ain’t helping.

Had a call from my GP about the morphine pills. I asked for another refill; not getting it, unless I go in and explain myself to the doc. Been on them “too long”. It was hard enough to ask for help in the first place. I don’t feel worth it. I’ll just sit here and let the pain come until I can’t take it anymore, then go to hospital and cry and scream. It’s all I deserve anyway.

…Fucking yeah. Fucking really depressed this morning. I know it. I know I’ve been battling it back for days.

News just heaps more anxiety and hate on my head. Can I call like I see it? I’d like to get three people I can think of out of the states. Then bomb it. Totally. Wipe it out. Kill everyone. They’re a mad bunch of psychopaths who are ruining the world. Let’s do everyone a favor and stop it. I sure as fuck don’t want to keep hearing about how they love their guns and hate their children. And the rest of the world wonders why American children who escape that prison hate their country and their ‘people’ so fucking much.

You know what I heard the other day? That Americans made a ‘mistake’. That’s how 45 was referred to, as a ‘little mistake’. Yeah. Electing a dictator was a ‘little mistake’. Electing a man who’s proud of the fact he’s a sexual predator was a ‘little mistake’. Electing a racist liar was a ‘little mistake’.

The sheer wall of ignorant hatred coming from the US is stifling. Horrifying.

And yeah, you’d better keep me out of those borders. ‘Cause if I have to go back, I ain’t goin’ down alone. Got it?

Goddess damn them all!

…*sigh*… And the sheer hypocrisy over the fact that no one seems, on a day to day basis, to get it. How can you be happy when there’s all this shit in the world? How can you feel good about yourself when you support an autocratic, dictatorial regime? How can you feel so ‘right’? Doesn’t it bother you that slavery still exists? Doesn’t it bother you that kids are killing kids? Doesn’t it bother you that human life is so fucking cheap we’ve got throw away people? But no. Those of you who can hold your shield of denial tight in your little hands are ‘okay’ and ‘normal’. I, who feel everything, am ‘wrong’ and ‘abnormal’.

I fucking hate the bell curve.

Just because I grew up in a time when most people were clinically insane makes me the odd one out. Doesn’t matter if their view on the world is skewed; it’s the ‘norm’, that high point of the bell curve that most people fall under and anything else is outside that norm and must be, by definition, ‘wrong’. There’s an old saying that a one eyed man in a land of the blind would be king, but that’s not correct. A one eyed man in a land of the blind would be locked up and medicated because no one else would be experiencing what he’s experiencing and thus he would be deemed ‘insane’. Doctors would spend their lifetimes trying to teach the seeing man that he’s just imagining it, or that he needs to breathe through it, or that if he just talks about his mother or father or the boy who bullied him enough everything will be fine and he’ll stop seeing what he’s seeing.

THAT is how I view the world. You’re fucked, not me. I’ve been asking for a lobotomy or some sort of equivalent on and off for years because it seems to me that’s what it’ll take for me to forget all the horror on this planet and just fucking smile and talk about the latest tv episode of the latest show everyone has to fucking watch like fucking zombies without a fucking thought in their own fucking heads. Go on. Maybe then I’ll smile as I kneel down to suck you off, you fuckers. Maybe then I’ll forget how much I hate you. Maybe then I’ll think like you: that sex is the pinnacle of human existence. That’s it. Just sex. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Up the ass, in the vagina, in the mouth, just fuck everything and everyone as hard and as fast as you fucking can because that’s it. There is no more, no greater reason, nothing more to aspire to. Forget intellect. Forget spirituality. Humanity is all about the orgy. Blood and semen and sweat mixed, violence and sex mixed, all in one big groaning and gyrating ball of legs and arms.

You’re all so empty.

Rx: smoke a joint, woman. I know; yesterday wasn’t good on smoke. And we both know it’s not an ideal solution. But remember our number one priority? Take care of ourselves. You’re on the edge of busting a gut, or making yourself so sick from anger and anxiety that you’ll cause real long term problems. You’re gonna feel better once the meds are done. You will live through whatever comes your way. Smoking now, or smoking today, isn’t gonna change much. So take care of yourself right now.

No one else will.



Make it count

I do not like waking up with my life in review. Legend has it your life flashes before your eyes as you die. Makes me wonder if I die every morning in bed. If I’ve already passed over, and this is my limbo. A place I’ve been put to sort myself out and where I can learn how to play nice with others. And maybe it is. We assume, when we speak, that there is one reality: this one. But what if there are realities stacked on reality, if birth and death are just the passages between? What if I’ve died and been born a thousand times over already?

What if nothing changes?

…I’d call that Hell.

So I must, by definition, call my inner mindscape Hell because nothing to little has changed up there. I’m still angry. Still want to beat the living shit out of my mother, my oldest brother, and my sister. I want them to hurt. Hurt, and regret the hurt they’ve caused – and I want to see it. I want to see their pain because of all the pain they’ve caused in my life. I want to see their tears, hear their cries of ‘I’m sorry!’ so I can coldly tell them that yes, they are sorry pieces of shit and I have no empathy for their suffering. That desire burns in me, unabated no matter how many epiphanies or moments of clarity I receive.

I judge that part of me to be small, and weak, and mean. I don’t like it, nor the person I become when it takes me over.


Did not venture out yesterday, and the weather is twice as bad today. Figures. Procrastination typically makes things worse. Shoulda, shoulda, shoulda. Today the evil sprites tinker on my teeth again; not looking forward to that. Then I must find shoes, and some sort of cheap purse I can use rather than my ever-present backpack (fine with jeans, not so great with an evening dress). Meh. I’m both excited and nonplussed about “coming out” as a female – something I haven’t done for decades.

My brother is not coming to the premiere. He doesn’t have any appropriate clothing. I didn’t realize that until he told me last night. All his decent stuff was destroyed in Ireland. Had to tell that to S, who called me last night asking for a list of guests I was going to bring. Had to tell S I wasn’t bringing anyone – and I heard that snag of pity in her voice after I told her. Really? No one? Nope. It’s the pity I felt from her that’s bugging me. I totally understand my brother’s reasoning; he’s got to invest in a few things this month and there just isn’t the money to do that plus buy a suit so he can come to a small premiere for a short film that was made by students and probably won’t ever go any further. In some ways, in fact, I’m pleased. My bro’s autism can…be embarrassing for me at times. His reactions and words. People get offended. They look to me for explanations, and I just don’t want to do that anymore (nor does my brother want that). And…while my brother is my biggest supporter, there’s something else as well. He negates my energy. Not purposefully, and not with anything he does or says. But we both…do things with energies. He adds disruption. I…I do something different. But I can’t do it when he’s there: his disruption level is so high it disrupts me. And I can’t always do it. Don’t know why, or even what it is I do, but I’ve seen it and felt it. Other people have seen it and felt it. In the right groove, I can sway an entire crowd. Bring them under my ‘spell’. It’s…an odd thing to admit to. Sounds crazy. But it has happened my entire life. And whatever it is I DO do, I do it a lot with the film crew. Naturally. It pours out of me. So, if I’m honest, I’m rather happy my brother isn’t coming. I want these people to see that in me. I don’t want that part of me shut down.

…Did I just admit that I can’t share a part of me with my brother? Well, yes and no. He’s seen that part of me. He knows it. He also knows it can get out of hand: this is the part of me that turns into the ever-young party girl. Loads of fun, but she can get in over her head pretty easy. She overindulges. So he tends to be a bit disapproving of that side of me. I know he does it to keep her in line, to keep me from hurting myself. But…it’s also grating. I feel shackled at times.

Sometimes, I have to let myself roar…

And, bless him, my brother knows that. Just as I know that sometimes he has to fly without me by his side.

You never know which roar will be your last, so make it count. I plan on that. One of the reasons I’ve kept this particular dress for so long is that it’s a power outfit for me. I can’t wear it and NOT be there. Even if I feel I look like shit, that dress makes me feel pretty. Attractive. Seen. I will smile and beguile, laugh and listen, be thankful and humble and grateful for the opportunity and time I’ve been give. I may never do another film; I don’t know. No one does. So, give it everything.

…That’s what counts in these daily deaths I go through. The times I gave it my all. Those are the times that do NOT haunt me. Those memories do NOT tear me from my sleep and push me out of bed against my will. I want more of them.

Make it count.

I ain’t that dumb

I do not feel like an idiot. That’s gotta be number one today, because so often I do feel stupid. …It’s awful nice not to be beating myself up for something or the other.

Exercise. Back at the gym on my regular rotation. Took the cross-trainer up to level 4 and blew through my first km at 6 minutes 44 seconds. Ran – RAN – more than four km in my 30 minute stint (that includes slowing down for 10 minutes of back peddling). I’m gonna break 5km in 30 minutes before I’m done! Yesterday was tough, naturally. New level, new push, far more aching in my ass muscles. It was worth it.

Language class went well. Maybe my Thursday teacher has been talking to my Monday teachers. Don’t know. What I do know is I was given more time to collect myself before answering, and not once was I given a disappointed look – even if I wasn’t perfect. The other students laughed at me; I was given a very long sentence to read aloud, and kept repeating it to try and pick up the full rhythm of the words. But my teachers nodded at me and smiled in agreement when I said ‘It’s like music’. There’s a cadence to speaking fluently that you need to master. Certain syllables get emphasized in a sentence to help convey meaning. I guess some people never hear that. I can’t help but hear it. …Was satisfied to intercept a look between two other students at one point of the class. We have a know it all (even worse than ME) who interrupts everyone so she can give her answers. I was concerned my irritation with her was purely my thing, my bipolar, my anger. No! Caught that look and I knew – I knew – I wasn’t alone. In fact, one of the people involved in the look caught my eye and smiled, bringing me into the joke. It felt good to be included. Got to say I’m now concerned about this know it all woman. Oh, she irritates the hell out of me. She doesn’t really talk to anyone during break, just sits by herself. But…I can’t help but feel for her. Cultural differences, personal differences…who knows what makes her tick? I don’t. But I do know what it feels like to be on the outside. Too often I’ve been in her shoes – the know it all no one can stand. I just…I don’t know that I want to be the one to work so hard to be nice to her. And…it was so pleasant to sit at a table with several other students, drinking coffee and chatting in Dutch. So light. I want more of that. Is that wrong of me?

…I am THRILLED to find the theatre group has collapsable knives and a prop toy gun. No worrying, no fretting, no re-thinking the death scenes. I can move forward with the thriller trilogy without massive re-writes. Yea! I didn’t really want to give up my final scene with the gun. It’s powerful. And the knives – that’s just icing on the cake. The second act can stand as is.

Ready to finish Taman today and get it off my system. Might even devote ten minutes of brain power to looking at the submission requirements.

And writing… I’m beginning to write in Dutch. I have a little story thought out, front to end. I think I can handle the language needed to write it. It’s a kids’ story, nothing earth shattering. But it’ll be my first attempt at really writing in the language. Strange, thinking in Dutch. Strange, hearing the turns of phrase in my head. Not fully there yet, but I’m close. Very close. I know this will just be another step. There’s still many more to go before I’m fully proficient. But I look forward to really trying my hand at a narrative. My own story, thunk up outta my brain.

Yeah…(extra space left for dreaming my dreams).

Two days ’til I turn 52. Really can’t quite believe that number. I thought I’d be dead by 40. No reason in particular, I just felt I was gonna die rather early. Now I almost feel like I’ve lived beyond my sell-by date. Doesn’t help when I read news of David Cassidy dying. His picture was up on my wall when I was a kid. People my age are dying. Every day. My friends and comrades are vanishing into memory. Makes me think even more over my own mortality. Makes me wonder when my body clock will go off, when I’ll hear the word ‘terminal’. Will I feel ill and tired? Or will it come at me when I’m at the top of my game? It’s the latter I worry about.

Have an appointment with my very cute physiotherapist today. Don’t really feel I need it – and that’s a good thing. I’ll push my next appointment out even further. Maybe I’ll be able to take my visits down to 4 a year. Wish I could break thru the patient-doctor barrier with him – and not just because I find him so damned attractive. He’s a nice guy, and easy to talk with. He could be a friend if the situation were different.

Now there’s something to get me into trouble: friendships with men. I prefer them, on the whole – right up to the point where the man gets a little drunk, or a little bold, and finally says to me that he’s always fancied me and why didn’t we ever hook up? Oh, fuck. I’m leery of that now. ‘Cause it’s just not there. It could be, if I gave up all sorts of ME. I’ve been sexual, and could be again. I just. don’t. wanna.

I operate best as a big kid. Bumbling around, making observations no one wants to hear, learning, watching, digesting it all and spitting it back out. I don’t want to be distracted by grown-up stuff. That’s what makes me feel like an idiot.

And I ain’t that dumb.



Managed to get through my weekend chores. The house is tidy, the laundry is done, even scrubbed out the bathroom. And I didn’t just sit on my ass, either. Got to the gym. Steady, though not all-out, exercise.

What I didn’t do is rehearse. That’s slightly bothersome. However, my logical side argued that (1) tonight’s version is a one-off, (2) I might not incorporate any of tonight’s ideas into the actual performance, and (3) until I hear some laughs, I can’t make any decisions on my look or voice or actions. Besides, I know myself. It’ll just pop out of me at the right time.

It always does.

Feel a bit foolish these last few days. I’m watching the news about the hurricane – like there’s something I’ll accomplish just by watching. It also feels ghoulish. I tune in to find out how bad it is. And while part of me (a hard and angry part) feels vindictive joy over stupid Americans getting theirs, another part of me knows how wrong that feeling is. There are good people out there, too. I find it a pity that water doesn’t discriminate. If it took only the bad people, if it ruined only the greedy, I could feel joy without guilt. But it doesn’t.

…Recorded and watched a tv broadcast of Tommy. Hadn’t seen it since I was a child. Wasn’t sure how I felt about it. I remember thinking it was strange, and not really understanding the subtext. I get now why I didn’t really like it – the music sucks. Many songs are nothing more than a 16 bar progressive riff repeated ad infinitum until the music stops. The lyrics are hackneyed and lame. And while the visuals might have been cutting edge at the time, they look amateur and laughable now. Had to search out statements made about the original opera – what the hell was Townsend driving at? Found an article that came out on the heels of the album release. Full of bullshit (in my opinion). After watching and listening with my adult’s eyes and ear, what I saw was Townsend’s great opus to homosexuality. Oh, he couched it in a Jesus metaphor. I’ll give you. But peel that away and this is what I saw: a thinly veiled account (factual? only Townsend can say) of a childhood filled with verbal, mental, and sexual abuse. The child grows ‘deaf, dumb, and blind’ – non-communicative. Why? Perhaps a secret so dark the author was unwilling to own up to it back then? The lyrics in the final piece are questionable, too. ‘Gazing at you, I get the heat’? ‘I get excitement at your feet’? Hm. …Perhaps I’m overstepping, but now that I’ve seen this link it’s all I can see. *sigh* And still, against all popular culture, I’ve got to say I didn’t like it. It bored me.

Seems like the world has gone quiet. Oh, if you want hurricane info it’s there aplenty. But don’t tell me North Korea has gone silent, or things are peaceful in the middle east. Crap is still going on. We’re just not hearing about it. I don’t like that. I understand overriding concerns, etc. etc. – but if humanity is ever to learn bloody anything, we’ve got to realize the story doesn’t stop at the end of the damned article! The news shows us pictures of refugees, or people in natural disasters, and we think ‘oh, how sad, how pitiful’. Some people send money, others prayers. All are thinking ‘what if that was me?’. So I know North Korea is still a problem. I know war is still raging in places I’ve never even heard of. I’m not gonna forget about them just because a big storm moved in to toss Miami’s buildings around like toy blocks. But the media! …If parents are partially to blame for the problems of their children, certainly media is partially to blame for the current short attention span of humanity. We’ve taken it down to tweets and comments. Hot topics only! Don’t give us yesterday’s news; we’re bored by that already! Ho, hum, and yeah, yeah.

Fucking twits.

I am so glad I never had children! I just don’t see things getting better. …Watched 2012 last night, because after all the hurricane updates I was in the mood for a big disaster film. And you know…humanity has the bad habit of imaging its end as a huge disaster. Big upheavals, trying times (usually with the hero living thru it, along with his future mate). We don’t imagine it as dying with a whimper. Simply dying out. No. The continents shift, biblical floods occur, the tops of mountains blow off, aliens travel thousands of light years to blow up American iconic buildings, but simply die out -? Not in our vocabulary. And that’s a weakness. We fail to see our real pitfalls, and these overblown disaster stories, while entertaining, do nothing but blind us to reality. They ignite our imaginations, yes…but in the wrong direction.

There is a story brewing in my brain. It’s been there for a while; six months, at least. It’s not heroic. And it’s not pretty. It has burning, and gasping for air. It has the basest, the ugliest side of humanity laid spread eagle for all to consume. No matter how many times I put it aside, and think, Not yet! Not yet!, it returns to me. The tale of dying out. Of the problems we caused being too big for us to solve. Of our future generations’ sentence: to pay the price for the industrial revolution, and the associated pollution allowed to spread and infect every particle of the planet that gave us life. It’s not a tale to push an environmental agenda, or a feminist agenda, or a political agenda – despite the obvious set-up. It’s a sad, bleak tale about the end. No fireworks, no opportunity for last minute heroics because there’s nothing anyone can do but die.

…Shit. Now I’ve made myself melancholy. *sigh* Better go turn on cartoons and start playing…


I knew her

I called the number I found for L. There was a pause, while the lines made the long connections across the Atlantic. And then – a ring. My heart jumped. Two rings. What was it I was going to say? Three rings. I was ready to hear my old friend’s voice.

When a Midwestern drawl answered, I barely comprehended what was said. I kept on the line, listening as a pre-recorded message read off a list of extensions.

It was a company line.

Which means, of course, that the number’s been recycled. No one ever tells you that. That the new phone number you feel all shiny and happy about in your brand new home is probably from someone who died. Goddess! We pick the electronic bones of the dead.

Found a handful of photos. All of them were from one trip: our infamous Grand Canyon/birthday bash in Arizona. Most are too distant. L along the handrail by a huge backdrop. A few were taken at night, when we rented a limo to take us out to the clubs. I had a lousy camera at the time, and all of the nighttime pics are overexposed from the flash. But there’s one. One picture that shows the L I remember. We were in the car, taking some back roads to an out of the way hot spring we heard about. She’s driving, with sun glasses on. I must have told her to look at me for the pic; she turned, and in typical fashion of L at that time, she stuck her tongue out at me. That’s the picture. Not the ones of her and I trying to look grown up as we stood by the limo. Not the ones in the hats. That one, with her tongue sticking out. That’s the one that made me cry.

My brother was gone all afternoon; he’s found a band to work with and he was at his first rehearsal. When he came home, he was full of energy, full of stories about the day. I kept quiet, my responses limited to short exclamations of happiness on his behalf. It kept on that way all thru the evening: me wanting to bring all this up, yet saying nothing.

11 p.m. The last episode watched for the evening, I muted the tv. And in that heartbeat of silence, I told my brother what happened.

Not just about the phone call. About all of it. This obsession that came over me the last 48 hours. How, while waiting to make that phone call, I googled other things. Pictures and videos of my old home town. Walked the google street views from my old high school through the local village and up the hill to my dad’s house. Took a car trip along Lake Michigan. Places I’d travelled thousands of times in my youth. Places I could have driven blindfolded when I was 21.

There was little I recognized.

Buildings downtown, large skyscrapers – they’re still there. Still look the same. The lake is still there. Fair grounds: just as I remember.

But the trees were all different. Many were too tall, and now obstruct the view I grew to know as a young woman. Streets were widened. Shops had changed hands.

The more I looked, the more nostalgic I grew. It was a strange nostalgia, though. A ‘member-berry nostalgia. Because it wasn’t real. I knew that even as I felt those tugs at my heartstrings. These pictures didn’t include the heat, the humidity, the insects. The audio didn’t include the crassness, the ignorance, the bigotry. And even as I felt I’ve missed so much! I knew I hadn’t. I left because nothing ever happened.

Ended by searching my eldest brother. Figured I needed to see what info was available on him, someone I knew, before I could make a judgement on the info I had on L. Odd thing. I found a sales record of the family home in 2005. And a new address for my brother. He never mentioned selling the house or moving.

…You know, some idioms are like onions: so many layers, it takes a lot of peeling to get down to the core. You can’t go home is an idiom heavy on my mind today. Thought I fully grasped that one years ago. Turns out there was a whole other layer to it that I didn’t even know existed until it was ripped away.

I’m leaving the past behind. Letting it go. My brother agreed that, when we have a bit of extra cash, I can pay for a death certificate search for L through the state records. Just don’t know if I’ll ever hear anything from her daughter. For all I know, I was demonized in her eyes. The bad girl that led her mother astray. So I’ll rely on that cold confirmation of public records. But for me – I don’t want to lose today because I’m caught in memories of the past. So I’m snapping myself out of it. When I’m done with this post, it’s dishes and bed making, then off to the gym. Gonna run my lines for the play, and get some writing done. I’ll listen fully to my brother, engage in real conversation. Later in the week, I’ll take the metro downtown and just walk around, window shopping. Remind myself of where and when I am.

I could get that picture of L reproduced in a larger size. Get it framed, put it up on my wall. And maybe I will. But more than that, I want to write her. I don’t know that I’ll ever capture the person or entity I remember. I feel it my duty to try, though. She was and will always be someone who had a great influence over me.

And I have no doubt that I will see her again. Not in the same form, obviously. But I know we will meet again. Our friendship was one of those strange old soul things; we knew each other the moment we met in this life. It’s strange to say that, because I can’t honestly say I know that much about her physical life here. Who were her friends, other than me? I don’t know. What happened all those years we didn’t speak? I don’t know. But that…that’s surface stuff.

I knew her.



The internet is so not free. Nor open. Searching for an old friend from overseas is frustrating, to say the least.

I have an address and land line.

I also found a death notice that claims L died at the age of 45.

Searched for an obit. All afternoon. Found nothing. Plenty of places I could cough some money up to, places that may or may not have any further info on her. No word from the message I sent out to her daughter. Found her husband, after a prolonged search. His online status lists him in a relationship with someone other than my friend.

I’m thinking of dialing that land line number this afternoon.

…Not even sure I want to know the truth. In some ways, people who live only in your memory are already dead. You think of them in terms of the past.

Keep telling myself it’s just an online mix up. One of those bullshit things that happen. I searched for her name and a death certificate; obviously, some site out there is gonna claim to have one. Thinking how silly I’ll feel if I call and she picks up. Of course she’s still there in Wisconsin. Of course she’s alive. How silly, how silly!

Yet…we’re talking about someone who was working with computers before computers became the thing. I have a difficult time believing she would have no social pages, no posts, no professional links whatsoever if she were alive.

Dead? At 45? That would make it 2010. Seven years ago.

And what does that make me? If ever you’d ask me, I would have said L was my best friend ever. Never had another connection with anyone that rivaled the bond between us. If she’s been dead for seven years…and I didn’t even know…

Can’t wrap my head around this. I’m in denial.

Want to find her photograph in my pile of memories. Look at her face. Demand her to be alive, be real.

…Goddess. I have to make that phone call.

Is it silly to mourn so belatedly?

The strange thing is, when people from your past die, a part of your memory dies. All those things we did, we crazy 20 something young women – now, maybe, I’m the only one to carry those memories. There is no one to reminisce with. The memories becomes stories, the stories become legend, the legend fades away and becomes forgotten. Somehow, thinking of L as alive – even tho we lost touch and hadn’t spoken for years, even tho we parted on less than ideal terms – it made the world a little less cold. There was someone out there who remembered me.

Now…now I have a four hour wait before I can dial the phone. A four hour wait to think, and remember.

A vigil. Light a candle, and pray like hell.


The best stories to tell


I have a full page of stop-and-start writing that’s supposed to be an attempt at a synopsis for my script. I’m having a hard time getting beyond the first sentence. In fact, truth be told, the entire page is filled with various first sentence attempts. Synopsis writing has always been my Waterloo. Ask me to create a story, a poem, a logical argument ready to be debated in senate, and I can do it. Ask me to write a synopsis and I tank on it every time. So I’ve turned to my friend J., who reviews films for a partial living, for help. Fresh eyes, an expert hand at succinct writing – should be no problem for him.

Then there’s my CV. I’ve roughed it out to one page, and highlighted my writing credits no matter what pseudonym I used to send stuff out. Meh. While I never lie on a CV, I do add a bit of spin. My stories aren’t unpublished; they’re out for consideration at various publishing agencies. That kind of stuff (which is true; all the stories I’ve listed ARE out at publishers and I haven’t heard back). Still. I hate it. Someday I’ll have an assistant to do pesky shit like my CV and synopses.


So today’s the day I’ve got earmarked to get back to the gym. Winter’s moved into Rotterdam. I haven’t said much about it because I’ve seen the news, and Rotterdam’s winter is so nothing compared to the blizzards throughout Europe and North America that it’s akin to complaining about a cold to someone who’s got pneumonia. The truth is we’ve had freezing rain, and freezing conditions, for several days now. I haven’t wanted to venture out because of the risk of falling – which, I find, I’ve developed a deathly fear of. But last night was dry, and I’ve a good chance today of clear sidewalks from here to the gym. And I am so in need of getting back to regular exercise that I’ve flipped: I’m sluggish, don’t want to move, don’t want to get started, and would just rather sit in my sloth for another week. Very much time to crack that mental whip and get back to it. It will help me relax, help me write the crap I still need to write, and help me get back into the swing of my regular routine.

My smoking continues to be too much. I’m holding off, here and there, from chain smoking. Keep thinking ‘is this the one that gives me cancer?’. Not a healthy place to be. I need to fill my time again with outside things: the gym, the pool, language lessons, errands. Most of all, I need to get away from my computer. I’m still so mentally there with writing it’s hard to break. And when I do break, I sit and play repetitive games until the sun goes down.

Still in a state of flux with immigration. My bro received a letter asking for a piece of paper he hadn’t included in the original packet. Everyone says don’t sweat it. I try not to think too much about it. Not too bad with that, actually. My head has focused on more morbid thoughts than simple immigration. Not that THAT’S a great thing to say. But I guess when I’m contemplating death or being left alone for the rest of my life because my bro dies, little stuff like pieces of paper from governments just don’t mean too much.

Been thinking I should allow myself to write a drama/tragedy. My head’s there a LOT. Just put it down. Let it out. It doesn’t have to go anywhere. I don’t have to try and get it done. But write it. On the other hand, I’m a bit concerned doing that would drag me down into it. When I get in the groove, I get in the groove. Live, sleep, eat, shit my stuff. Comedy is far better to go into like that. Drama or tragedy…I don’t know that I have the time to cry as much as I’d need to to get it out of me.

Deflection. Just watched a show last night where a character was talking to a shrink and made a joke. The shrink observed that humor, in that instance, was being used to deflect from the real hurt the character felt. That’s an idea I can sink my teeth into. I do it a lot. So much that in this particular instance, ‘a lot’ really should be written as one word: alot. I recognize a number of things. One, that using humor to deflect was taught to me. Two, that I didn’t get it for a long time and was accused of not having a sense of humor before the age of 20. And three, that anything can be a drama and anything can be a comedy, depending on the spin you put on it. That’s what it all comes down to: the way you look at it. The spin. AbFab is an excellent example. Edina is a bleeding horrible person, as is Patsy. They do it as a comedy, but it can easily be done the other way. Take out the bright colors in the wardrobe and the mugged faces they occasionally pull, and you’ve got a story of an abusive family being abusive. I’ve even see Saunders take it to the edge. In one episode, Edina gets so mad she throws a cup of yogurt. You can hear the audience gasp in shock at this display. It’s a moment of straight up rage tucked away in this comedy that takes everyone by surprise. So it’s all how you play it.

I guess I’m done playing my life as a drama or tragedy. I’d rather laugh, anyway. And sure, that’s deflection in process. It hurts to think on the words ‘abuse’ and ‘neglect’. It hurts to remember a lot of my past.

But I’ve always said: the best stories to tell are the worst stories to live through.


The Day The Music Died

I woke up yesterday with no anger and no headache. Should have been the warning sign I was looking for: obviously my body was tuned into something my mind wasn’t. All I have left is sorrow and emptiness.

As the saying goes, grab your ankles and kiss your ass good-bye. This is officially the beginning of the end.

I have begun the long task of culling through everyone I’m connected with on FB. Un-friending all the orange people (NOT the Dutch). First on my list was my eldest brother and his wife. My eldest brother, direct descendant (as am I) of a leading American socialist from the early 1900s. My eldest brother, who commented that ‘socialism is the politics of babies’.

I will never speak to him again.

I will never, in fact, use English on FB again. Only Dutch. Don’t care that I’ll have very little to say or that I might get it wrong. I’m not using English. And I refuse to switch to English out in the real world no matter how confused I get. I will NOT use the language of that manipulative narcissist. I want out. I want to burn my passport. I want to deny where I was born. I want to deny my entire family other than the bro I live with.

Even this blog, someday, will switch to all Dutch. For now, though, I don’t have enough of the language to explain myself clearly – which was the bleeding purpose of this blog in the first place. So for me, for my head, this will continue in English as long as I need it to. But communication with the larger world…that’s gonna be Dutch. Suck it if you don’t like it.

America has been ripe for a revolution for a long time. I really hope you guys get up and do something this time. I doubt it. I doubt your will. I doubt your resolve. I doubt everything about you because you’re American. And that’s racist. Well, you’re a racist nation. How’s it feel to know people hate you simple because of where you were born?

And I know. I know how it’ll go down. Already I’m reading the ‘it won’t really be that bad’ stuff. Get a grip. The Republicans have control of congress. Trump has a blank check to do anything he wants – grab pussy, imprison blacks, build the pipeline across sacred land, deport Muslims. Retrospectively, Hitler is gonna seem like a pussycat next to Trump. And this is just the beginning. Watch how right wing politicians sneak into office all over the world. Watch how persecution becomes common place. Watch your rights go up in smoke.

Watch the end of the world.

I always knew I’d witness it. The next, and possibly last, great war. Here it comes. Just one more tiny bubble to burst and the whole thing collapses. That should happen soon. It’ll hinge on currency markets. Wait for the drop.

So I’m smoking because why give it up if this is the end? It doesn’t matter. At least I’ll be high.

And fuck, do I need it!

I know some people might read this and shake their head. Think I’m some doomsayer. Good luck with that whole denial thing. Seems to be working for you so far. That is, after all, what got you to where you are today – about to crown the future emperor. He will sell you down the river. Trump is an 80s guy, and 80s guys only know how to make money one way: by destroying. The all important caveat is ‘anything for a buck’ (which could explain Trump’s abuse of women; he might have thought it was ‘anything for a fuck’).

Let me explain a basic economic FACT to you: for one person to have something, another must go without. Economists like to talk theory – theory – about unlimited supply. In other words, there’s always enough of whatever you need or want. That is not a true model for this world. In this world, everything is limited. Land space for homes, agricultural land for food, oil for energy, money to live. Therefore, for one to have a lot means many others go without. Trump is (reportedly, I don’t think he ever did release his tax forms like he said he would) rich. Therefore he cheated, lied, and stole that money away from others. I’m sure he did it to within the letter of the law (mostly). That’s your problem. The basic wrench in your system. You allow this behavior because you still hold out the hope that someday, somehow, you’ll be the rich one enjoying walking over everyone’s back. Oh, you tell yourself you’d be nice. Give the money away. Share it with friends and family. But chances are high once you had that money you’d want to hang onto it. That’s what typically happens. And those people with the real money, like Trump, they tell you it’s possible to make that leap from living paycheck to paycheck to uber rich. They even dubbed it ‘the American dream’ like it was their idea. But it’s not possible. Not unless you prove yourself to be as ruthless and amoral as they are. Hell, I don’t think they’d let you into the club (or even let you know where the club IS) unless you could claim to have ruined over 10,000 lives.

Let me ask you: how many workers have to go without health care for stock owners to get one more dollar in their dividend checks? That’s not a joke, nor do I have the answer. Just something for you to ponder.

I know the above is an old song. Showing my age again. But I can’t get the refrain out of my head. It is, after all, about a world gone wrong.

And it does feel like the day the music died.


Teaching an old dog new tricks


My back is at the stage that I’m fine once I’m up and walking. It’s just the getting up that’s a problem. Takes me twenty or so steps before I can actually straighten up fully. Before then, I’m hobbling around bent over like a hunchback. Nighttime is intermittent pain and sleep.

That pain just drives everything else out if it’s bad enough. It stokes my anger, too. Damned bastard back! I think as it spasms yet again while I try to stand up just to take a pee. Anger is so much more proactive a feeling than sorrow.

Not that the anger sits with me for long. It just comes and goes, stabbing at me in random fashion.

Been thinking a lot about my family. My DNA-brother is trying to be understanding out on FB. Trying, and failing miserably. I feel I can’t trust any sentiment that might once have made me feel like he’s a real human being. He’s so cold. So wrapped up only in his life. So unable to actually CARE for another person. Just when I think he might have changed, he lets loose with something that tells me no, same old same old just with a new coat of paint.

I know the bigger and better part of me needs to see past all that stuff. Hear the pain hidden behind his words.

And there is so much pain in my family.

Normal for me growing up meant stuff like my brother’s reaction to death – which only made him sad because it served to remind him that he, himself, would die someday – was okay. He was fine; no reason not to feel that way. I wasn’t told that was a cold, hard reaction. I was told MY reaction was out of line. That I needed to understand him, not the other way around. Same with my sister: when she had an off day, the family walked on eggshells. The second child in the family dictated everyone’s behavior because goddess! Don’t set her off. Let her have her way. Don’t speak up, don’t defend yourself, don’t cause any more problems.

You know: normal.

Problem is, that wasn’t normal.

Like a caged animal, though, that’s what I was fed. I was the one that was wrong for feeling unloved, unsupported. Their push me-pull me actions were not the problem; everyone did that. Siblings did that. The lying, the back stabbing – all part of being a ‘loving family’.

Don’t get me wrong here. This isn’t a blame-bash session. This is a full understanding coming on me. This is a I get it down to my socks kind of feeling.

No wonder any sign of human kindness blows me away. I never got it from the one source everyone said you always got it from: my family. Or if I did, it would be there one day and snatched away the next, replaced by ridicule and shame, making me even more vulnerable.

They taught me not to trust.

What happens to a puppy you raise when you feed it with one hand and cut it with the other? It grows up into a mad dog, biting the hand that feeds it.

And I know if that happened to me, it happened to my siblings. I know that underneath all my DNA-brother’s bullshit and hateful language lies a lot of pain. That pain lies underneath all I hate about my sister, too. I hear echoes of it in my uncle’s words.

My family is mentally ill. Even the ones that don’t have some built-in chemical imbalance or whatever you want to blame for mental illness.

We were raised in cages. Cages of crazed behavior passed off as normal.

It wasn’t until I began writing out here that I really started to learn about the rainbow variety of mental health. I saw myself in so many people’s words. And I began to learn that my ups and downs weren’t the ‘norm’. Not everyone struggled the way the tribe did, despite the fact I’d been told ad infinitum that my problems were not unique and everybody had to go thru it. Still, it was hard to stop blaming myself. My mother taught me (and was no doubt taught by her mother) that discipline and iron will are the only things that can pull you through life. Just stop thinking that way, she’d say to me so many times. But for me, stopping my circular thoughts was impossible. I was weak for not being able to do it. Weak, on top of everything else. Wasn’t ’til I came out here that I began to acknowledge how strong you’ve got to be to do this.

The door is open. I had a dream as a kid about being in this huge house. A mansion, a castle. So many rooms, but no door leading outside. Only one, hidden in the basement. An old door I’d assumed was locked. But as I touched the doorknob, the door swung open. It had never been locked; it was always open.

Almost forty years on and I feel today like I finally understand that dream. That door – the way out of the madness I was raised in – was always available to me, always open and ready to walk through. I’ve just been too afraid to walk through it.

I feel like one of those rescued dogs you see on tv adverts. Half starved, barely able to stand, blinking against the light because it’s been in the dark for so long.

Now begins the long task of teaching this old dog new tricks.



For Ulla: Because You Believed In Me

10 September 2016.

The following contains quotes from Ulla, aka Blah from Blahpolar Diaries, in italics. I have no hope of reaching the locutions I feel are needed to remember her, so I used quotes. She wouldn’t want anyone putting words into her mouth anyway.

Beautiful, beautiful Ulla

Her death tastes like a handful of her medications: bitter. I gobble it down *gulp, gulp* in one bite but it chokes me and makes me sick.

“I believe that our tears honour our dead, but it’s got to be real.”

Oh, it’s real. Too fucking real. My brother suggested twice that the news may be some sort of sick joke. However much I hope to see an email from Ulla telling me that rumors of her death are largely exaggerated, I know I won’t see it. I knew it the moment I read the news: Blah is gone…

Are you still there? 5 September 2016, 06:53 a.m. That was my last message to her. I try to not think that the message came through too late. That I should have written it 24 hours earlier. I try not to think that it was there on time. That she saw it, and that her reply was her suicide: no, I’m not there.

“I’ve lost myself along the way and I’d like to find myself again, even if it’s just to say goodbye.”

Ulla may have felt lost, but she helped me find my way. She helped a lot of people. Through her ups and downs, her crazed periods and her vomiting, she kept us updated with her sharp observations and raw honesty.

“True compassion is rare and horribly underrated.”

Yes. And she had it in spades. She was always there when I cried help. She gave and gave, so much. If only she could have given as much to herself, I think. If only..

“Chief amongst the things I’m never going to write about in the memoir I’m never going to write, is a chapter I won’t be calling ‘Grandiose Schemes and Ensuing Fuck Ups’. Because ja….. If selective memory deletion ever becomes a thing, I’ll be trampling people on my way to the head of the queue.”

And I would say no, no, Ulla. Your memories make you who you are. I like who you are. And she would tell me she doesn’t but she loves me for saying it.

“So, tribe, how are you doing? We might be the only people who can ask each other that and just tell the truth. No pretence, no sinking feeling, no feelings of guilt when the truthful answer is, “up to shit” more often than not. Here we all are, intense and extreme people, people who other people often think have our heads up our asses, but here we are and we’re so fucking compassionate.There are days when this tribe – you – get me through it without me melting down completely. There’s a lot more I could say, but I won’t, because I’d fuck up my reputation for grouchiness. Seriously though, thank you.”

In the two years since she began her blog, we climbed on the Fuck Bipolar Train with Blah at the controls. Her acerbic wit drove us on as she stoked the fires with her dragon breath. But she never kidded anyone. Ulla didn’t want to die; she just didn’t want to keep living.

“I feel the need to preface my answer by telling you that this isn’t a threat, just a statement (a weather report, if you will) – I don’t want to be alive. Oh dear, I shouldn’t have said that, I should never say that. Yes I hear you…. It freaks you right out, it’s unfair on you, it breaks your heart, it’s not a rational conclusion, it’s selfish, it’s… It’s all of that and more and now you’re hurting too. Ah I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You care because you love me and I open up because I love you, but this particular conversation only ever has one conclusion. It causes you distress and me loneliness.”

It was – is – hard to read. I wonder if she left a note, but why? She left hundreds of pages of notes right here. How could she be more eloquent at the end, when it was so obvious that the deeper she sank into depression the less she wrote?

“I get very silent when I’m feeling very fucked.”

And silent she went.

“So I swallow the pills, keep regular hours, get some exercise and basically live (mostly) like a model fucking bipolar patient. All I can see of the future is a dim road to an unhappy death. I have one dream and that is to go quietly very fucking soon after my dog does.”

My uninformed mind is playing tricks on me now and imagining all sorts of horrible scenarios. The unexpected death of her dog, Solo, that drove her over the edge. Giving up on that dream and leaving Solo alone. Even taking Solo with her.

Who found her? How did she do it? Where will she be buried? All things I may never know.

“I don’t believe that the dead suffer, I strongly believe that the living dead suffer every single moment of their lives.”

A paradox, then. I love her enough to not want her to suffer, tho that means I suffer myself. I’m not sure I give that willingly. I hold it out with one hand, full of love, and snatch it back with the other, full of loss. She is right; I have become the living dead.

“Everybody dies and there’s no way of thinking about it without being sad, and we should be sad when someone we love dies, because they’re worth being sad about.”

Yes, you are worth it.

“I haven’t learned not to rail against the very concept of death forever. It’s inevitable and personally, I think I will welcome mine when it comes. I’m not remotely interested in immortality.”

You are immortal, Ulla, in what you gave me and each person you touched. Knowing I will never read another post from you, another message, another joke, is one of the most horrible truths I’ve had to face. But I aim to live up to what you said to me: “you’re stronger than I am”. Not because the universe needs some proof that you were right.

But because you believed in me.